


Day 28: Old Wounds

by ofplanet_earth



Series: 30 days of Barduil [28]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bard freaks out a little, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Graphic Description of Injuries, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Post-Canon, Scars, Thranduil is Wounded, Thranduil's wounds, dragonfire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5305370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil is wounded in battle. Bard definitely does not overreact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 28: Old Wounds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Misty_Endings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misty_Endings/gifts), [bereniceofdale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereniceofdale/gifts).



> YOU GUYS I'VE OFFICIALLY COMPLETED NANOWRIMO!  
> I reached 50k just before 11 this morning! but worry not; this series isn't done yet! I plan to finish off the month and post all thirty stories. I just thought I'd let you know that I completed the challenge :D 
> 
> I combined two prompts for this one. the first was from breathingbarduil, and I was struggling a bit to come up with some of the specifics for the plot. then Misty_Endings dropped another prompt in my ask box and gave me a clear direction. 
> 
> I think we can place this one as being set in the same timeline as Reverence, but closer to the ending of BotFA.

Bard walked the battlefield, passing by fallen men and orcs without seeing their faces. He couldn’t see their faces. He could only move forward, could only pick his way over bodies and splash through pools of blood in the dirt and on the stone. He came upon the edge of the city and the carnage only climbed with him. Each new street was littered with discarded swords and shields and— was that a severed head? 

Bard’s stomach churned and he grit his teeth against the burn of the bile rising in his throat. This was not the first time his people had been forced to fight for their home. It was not the first time Bard had seen such death and destruction laid at their feet, but he did not think the sight would ever become easier to bear. He pressed on, searching for familiar faces as he came upon the crowd in the city square. He was looking for his children. He was looking for his friends. He was looking for the Elvenking. 

Chance would have it that orcs had attacked the day after Thranduil and his travelling party had arrived in Dale. Bard was grateful, for he did not think his people would have survived the attack had the elves not agreed to fight alongside them. He was angry as well, for the orcs had blown their horns just as the sun rose from between the peaks of the iron hills. Bard had been awake already, but Thranduil had not been. He did not wish to see his lover awake so violently ever again. 

The crowd grew thicker the further he walked through the city. Men and women ran through the square, from one open door to another, carrying bloodied rags and fresh bandages and steaming pots smelling of herbs. The great hall was filled with wounded men, but Bard did not stop. He was looking for his children. He was looking for the Elvenking. 

He found them all in his house— humble by the standards of a king, his people had said. A shack, Thranduil had called it, unbefitting his new station and undercutting his authority. Bard paid him no mind, for the stone walls were sturdy and warm. Never in his life had Bard lived in such luxury, and it was apparently not so lowly that a king of elves would not sleep there. 

“Da!” Sigrid rushed to the door with bandages in her hands. “It’s Thranduil, he’s—“ 

“My Lord,” Tauriel appeared at the archway leading from the kitchen. She bowed slightly, but it was a hurried motion. “It is my king Thranduil. He has been wounded.” Her expression gave away little, but Bard could see her composure straining at the corners of her mouth.

Bard hurried to follow her. He hadn’t seen Thranduil since they had parted at the gates of the city, had not seen him in the midst of battle, nor in the aftermath. He’d told himself that elves were immortal, stronger than any man or orc and that Thranduil was more than capable of defending himself. And yet fear hammered against his ribs and turned his blood to ice beneath his skin. He hurried down the corridor, past the children’s bedrooms— there were three of them, but Tilda had been unable to sleep in a room all alone, and so one of them had become Bard’s library. _A king ought to be well learned,_ Thranduil had said, arms laden with books and scrolls and maps to line the empty walls. 

Tauriel led him to the end of the hall and to his own bedroom. The crowd of elves inside parted easily for him, and there was Thranduil. He lay on Bard’s bed, his shoulder wrapped in bloody bandages and the muscles of his jaw twitching as he drew breath after unsteady breath.

Surely this was impossible. Surely the strength of the elves— the strength of a king— could not forsake him so easily. “What happened?” Bard asked as he made his way through the crowded room to the opposite side of the bed. 

“He was struck by an arrow. There is poison in his blood,” Tauriel moved to stand in front of him, blocking his way. “My lord I must warn you that—“ 

“Let me through.”

“He does not appear now as you have ever seen him—“ 

“Move, Tauriel. Now!” The elf said nothing more as she stepped aside, allowing Bard to pass and stand beside Thranduil on the bed. He was… “This is not the work of an arrow, poisoned or no.” 

“My Lord, I tried to tell you. These are old wounds, imbued with a darkness nearly as old as Arda itself. He is protected by elven magic and spells, but still they remain.” 

“What happened?” Bard sunk to his knees beside the bed, wishing to hold his lover but unwilling to do him any more harm. 

“Dragonfire.” 

“Smaug?” Even two years after he’d slain the beast, the name still sent terror singing along Bard’s spine. 

“No. The tales of my people say that this was long ago, during the War of Wrath, before his father Oropher fell and left him in command of the silvan elves.” 

By the Valar, that was almost six thousand years ago. “And yet they pain him still?” 

“They have never fully healed,” Tauriel came to stand beside Bard, though her closeness brought him no comfort. “The poison has has clouded his mind. He feels the wounds now as he did when he first survived the dragon.”

“Is there nothing you can do for him? For the pain?” 

“We have done all we can. He is strong; he will mend. All there is left to do is wait.”

“Then leave us.” Bard reached out to grasp the unmarred fingers of Thranduil’s left hand as tears began to tug at his throat and well in his eyes. The door closed and they were alone. Bard cursed himself. He should have found Thranduil during the battle, should have kept him close by. And yet Bard knew nothing would have been different. He had tried to cheat fate before— tried to thwart a prophecy, to save his home and his people from destruction. The lake had burned, regardless. 

Thranduil’s eyes were closed but his breathing was laboured and Bard could do nothing but watch his agony. His cheek had been decimated. Where once there had been smooth skin there was now a gaping and necrotic wound. Flesh hung from his cheekbone and the corner of his mouth in strings. Even as Bard watched, the burns seemed to creep further along his temple and the line of his jaw, only to begin fading again in the next moment. All along his ribs and his arm they swelled and shrank, like the memory of waves upon the shore of the lake.

Bard pulled the simple wooden chair from the corner of the room and watched is lover fight through the pain until the sun set. One of Thranduil’s guard came to light the lanterns on the walls and set a candle on the table beside Bard’s bed. The burns only appeared more grotesque in the flickering light. 

It was some time after midnight when Bard lost consciousness, still sitting beside Thranduil, his head resting beside his legs as he continued to writhe and whimper in his sleep. When he woke again, the sun was just beginning to turn the sky red. He picked his head up off the bed and kneaded the ache in his neck.

Long, elegant fingers began to comb through Bard’s hair as he still blinked sleep from his eyes. Thranduil was there. His eyes were soft and a smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “Good morning.”

He was whole again. A healer had appeared beside the bed to remove the dressings over his shoulder. The bloodied rags were peeled away to reveal smooth skin, marked only with the crusty brown of dried blood. 

“You’re alright,” Bard breathed.

“As well as I’ve always been.” Thranduil sat up and Bard moved to help him, though he showed no sign of weakness or pain. “Honestly Bard, there’s no need to overreact.” 

“But you were— I— No.”

“No?”

“No, you’ll not make light of this. You were hurt, Thranduil! You were bleeding! You were unconscious for the better part of a day, reliving a horror I can’t even imagine and you dare accuse me of overreacting?” 

Thranduil smirked, though a secret sadness clung to the edges of his mirth. “Here, come look.” He took hold of Bard’s wrist, bringing his hand to press against his shoulder. “See? Not even a scar.” 

“And what of your old wounds? Tauriel told me you survived dragonfire but—“ 

Thranduil turned to the healer, dismissing him with a curt nod of his head. “They are still there,” he said. “They will always be there. The memory presses against my skin even now, but I am able to hold it at bay. Had the arrow that struck me not been laced with poison, you might never have known that I was hurt at all.” 

“How is this possible?” Bard traced his fingers along the curve of Thranduil’s cheek and the plane of his temple, where he’d seen the angry burns gouge the smooth and pale skin only hours before. 

Thranduil grasped Bard’s hand and pressed a kiss to his palm before guiding bard to cover the phantom scars bard thought he could see on his cheek. “Have you not heard stories of the magic of elves? We are hardier folk than you seem to think.” 

Bard shook his head and allowed a soft smile to creep onto his face. “Promise me one thing,” he said. “Promise me you’ll never visit here without your armour again.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for fresh inspiration! you can still [send me an ask](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/ask) to request a fic.
> 
> if you don't see your prompt this month, don't despair! there are a few I won't get to before tuesday, but I plan on holding on to them for future stories. I'll credit everyone who sends a prompt when I publish the story.
> 
> I like to tag [inspiration](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/30-days-of-barduil).  
> you can keep track of my word count on my [novel page](http://nanowrimo.org/participants/ofplanet-earth/novels/30-days-of-barduil) or on my [tumblr](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/nanowrimo).


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